


till the stars stop shining

by ajkal2



Category: Captain America (Movies), Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, M/M, Stars, Torture, Winter Soldier AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-01 01:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12694440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajkal2/pseuds/ajkal2
Summary: In 1945, Takashi Shirogane fell from a train racing through the Alpine mountainside.In 2012, Captain Matthew Holt, hero of a decades-old war, woke up.This is the story of what happened in between.(aka a Shiro-centric Winter Soldier AU, with a sprinkling of Shatt.)





	1. WINTER SOLSTICE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father  
> Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers  
> Leave all your love and your longing behind  
> You can't carry it with you if you want to survive
> 
> -Dog Days, Florence and the Machine.

 

 

 

Champion’s head clamours. It throws him images of the captain from the plane. The word he’d heard as he fell. He shakes it off. It isn’t important. He needs to get away. They’ll be sending hunting teams, dogs, snowmobiles.

Blood drips into his eyes. He swips at it away, glancing at the red smear.  Head wounds always bleed.

_ All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. _

He grits his teeth. He doesn’t need meaningless strings of words, he needs to get out of these woods. He wipes the blood onto his battered black tac vest, and limps on.

His right arm sparks, wires brushing against something, and he glances at the mangled metal. It hurts, but what doesn’t? He huffs at the thought. His world is one of pain, pain and fighting and killing. He doesn’t know anything else. He’s almost certain. Almost.

_ a hand reaching- golden eyes- _

He shakes off the thought. Now is not the time.

He lifts his bad foot carefully, crunching through the crust of the snow. The sound is different, doubled, and his head snaps up. Another crunch, behind him, and he turns, ignoring the way his muscles scream with the motion. The night drapes everything in shadow, he can barely make out the trees, but there’s a patch of shadow with a different quality, a different depth.

The lighter patch of shadow is in the shape of a star. It’s at chest-height. His eyes narrow. The uniform flicks through his mind, sky-blue and red and that white star. The captain.

There’s a crack, and light flares from a camplight in the captain’s hand. The blue-tinged light flattens out the shadows, catches in his eyes. They’re golden, Champion somehow knows, even if they look brown. The captain has golden eyes, and brown hair that gleams like copper in the sunlight-

Champion shakes his head again. There is no sunlight. He flicks his wrist, activating- something in his arm crunches, grinds, and a new wave of pain washes over him. He sways.

The captain steps forward, reaching out. Champion manages a single step backwards. The captain stops. There’s a small furrow in his brow that screams worried.

“Shiro?” he said, word slipping from his lips. The word twangs at Champion, makes him flinch.

“Who the hell is  _ Shiro?”  _ Champion snarled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is my entry for the 2017 Shiro Big Bang!!! The two wonderful artists whose work you'll be seeing can be found at https://freddy-draws-and-scribbles.tumblr.com/post/167384029901/my-pieces-for-the-shiro-big-bang and http://cupcakeismynamebitchez.tumblr.com/


	2. SUMMER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love; it will not betray you  
> Dismay or enslave you, it will set you free  
> Be more like the man you were made to be  
> -Sigh No More, Mumford and Sons.

Takashi was tired. It was his first night, and it was too hot to sleep. He tossed in his narrow bed, kicking the blankets off with a huff, and stared at the slats of the bed above his.

His Mom always knew when he couldn’t sleep. She came and sang to him, or told him a story. But she was gone.

He blinked, biting his bottom lip and telling himself that he was old enough not to cry when he was sad anymore, he was 7 years old, nearly a grownup. But it was so hot, and he could never get to sleep when it was hot and his Mom would never tell him a story ever again and-

He rolled over, trying to stifle his sniffles in the sheets, and met the eyes of the boy in the bed next to his. The boy had eyes like honey. Takashi dashed at his eyes, turning away, but the boy was already getting out of his bed, darting across the narrow gap to sit by Takashi’s feet. Takashi curled up, wrapping his hands around his knees and frowning at him.

The boy grinned, and whispered something. It was quiet and hot and he couldn’t be _bothered_ to work it all out.

He scowled at the boy. “저리 가요.” he spat.

The boy’s eyes widened, and he grinned, leaning forward and chirping some more words. Takashi shoved at the boy’s shoulder, pointing at his bed. He rocked with the push and shook his head, hair flopping into his eyes. HIs hands rose, hovering between them for a moment before one curled into a fist. He pounded the fist gently into his other hand three times, then flattened out his hand and held it up. Takashi had seen some of the other boys playing something like that.

Takashi’s eyes narrowed.

****

“C’mon, Kashi, let me up! I’ll be fine in a few days, you know me!” Matt whined.

Takashi sighed, but remained sitting on Matt’s legs. “Yeah, Matt, I know you. I know you’re a dummy for wanting to get up when you know you need’ta rest.”

Matt pouted, and Sam giggled at the look on his face. Matt switched easily to glaring at his twin, and Sam stuck his tounge out in retaliation.

“Shiro’s right, dummy,” he said, swinging his legs from his bunk. “You’ll only get better if you don’ exercise an’ drink fluids an’ everything else the doctor said last time.”

Matt groaned, flopping back onto his pillow. Takashi put his hand on Matt’s forehead like the doctor had. It felt hot. He frowned, running his fingers up into Matt’s brown hair.

“Why’d you always have’ta get sick, you stupid-face?” he muttered.

“S’not my fault,” Matt grumbled, eyes slipping shut. “Jerk.”

Takashi tucked his legs up onto the bed, shifting so Matt’s boney knee didn’t press into him. He kept playing with Matt’s hair, letting the soft strands fall through his fingers.

****

The fireworks boomed, filling the air with cordite. Matt gasped next to him, pointing out a bright red ball of light and grabbing Shiro’s arm. Shiro smiled, leaning back and resting his hands on the tiles to get a better view. Warmth lingered in the terracotta, banked heat radiating through his palms.

Matt glanced back at him, grinning, the light reflecting off his glasses and catching in his golden eyes, and Shiro’s heart skipped a beat. He looked at the rockets instead, screaming as they rose, sparks trailing behind them.

Matt leant back next to him, and Shiro felt fingertips brushing against his. His cheeks suddenly felt much hotter, despite the cool evening air.

Cheers rang out as a particularly impressive boom rolled over them. Shiro shifted his hand back, tucking it into his lap. It wasn’t fair on Matt.

****

Matt slammed the door. His expression was thunderous. He barely grunted at Shiro’s greeting, clambering through the window and up the fire escape. Sam sighed, and shut the door gently behind as he followed Matt in.

Shiro’s eyebrows rose.

“Bad day at the labs?” he asked, scanning Sam. No explosive residue that he could see.

“New addition to the team,” Sam groaned, “Name of Slav. He’s _brilliant_.” Sam took the other chair, resting his head on his crossed forearms.

Shiro’s brow furrowed. “…I see.” He placed a piece of paper in his book, and left it next to Sam’s head.

“No, it isn’t- He actually is brilliant. A chemist. We could actually get the All-Cure working with him on the project, it’s just- He has a few quirks. Wanted us to rearrange all the equipment so he didn’t die in alternate universes.” Sam’s voice was slightly muffled.

“Alternate… universes.”

“Yep.”

“How long did it take to-“

“Don’t ask.” Sam’s shoulders slump, and Shiro patted him on the top of his head.

“I’ll go let Matt rant about it to an audience.” Shiro stood, stretching, and Sam gave him a weary thumbs-up.

“Good luck.” Shiro gave the back of Sam’s head a thin smile. Matt hadn’t exactly been open lately.

The outside air was humid, warm. Matt wasn’t on the stairwell outside the window, so Shiro started climbing, careful of the rusted patches. After a few stories he heard the cursing, and his smile softened. The sun was setting, the sky painted turquoise with pink clouds like wounds slashing across it.

Matt stood at the top, hands clenched around the railing, looking out over the city. Shiro leant beside him, watching the light turn him into a marble statue. He was like Athena, a god of war and cleverness, surveying his kingdom, clear, sharp beauty like a knife edge.

No, he couldn’t think like that, it only brought trouble. It was… it was his best friend, his male best friend, on a fire escape looking at the sunset. Nothing more than that.

The silence stretched between them. Usually Matt was all too keen to moan about a faulty test or broken equipment or lack of funding.

“So I heard you got a new researcher,” Shiro prompted.

Matt’s fingers flexed. He didn’t look at Shiro.

Maybe there was something else, on top of the new researcher?

He bumped Matt’s shoulder with his own. Matt glanced at him, quickly, then forced his head forward again.

What else could there be?

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Shiro asked, concern layered through his tone. He turned his body to face out over the city, but his eyes stayed fixed on Matt.

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, and pigs can fly. C’mon, it’s just me.” He reached out, tugged at Matt’s shoulder, but Matt twisted away from him.

“It’s nothing, Shiro. Drop it.” Tendons stuck out in Matt’s neck. His eyes were fixed on the sky but he didn’t seem to be seeing it. Matt hadn’t called him Shiro before, not that he could remember. There was a distance to him, held in his fists on the railing and his shoulders bunching up his shirt and his clenched jaw sticking out that little bit. Shiro’s eyes fixed on that, the nub of bone, before he forced his gaze upward. He should’ve gotten over this. Matt was angry with him.

“What… Did I do something wrong?” he asked, standing straighter. Maybe Matt had noticed- he’d been trying so hard to stop, it was wrong, looking at his friend in that way, it was against the law but he-

“No,” Matt blurted, “No, _you_ didn’t do a thing wrong.” There was a subtle emphasis there, the slightest of implications, a hint of guilt. His head hangs, copper-tinted bangs falling over his eyes.

“What can I do to help?” Shiro asked, leaning in slightly. His fingers twitched to brush Matt’s hair back, hold his cheek, lean in and...

Matt pushed away from the railing, clattered down the steps.

****

Cold water ran over his hands, washing the grime from his split knuckle and soaking the rag he was holding. Shiro wrung it out, water splattering onto the tin sink, then balled it up in his fist. Twisting the tap off, he turned. Matt leant against the edge of the rusty bathtub, disgruntled.

“So, what did they do this time?” Shiro asked, tone lightly teasing. “Disrespect a lady?” He turned, bringing the cool rag up to dab at Matt’s swollen forehead. Matt grumbled something intelligible, scowl etched onto his features. “C’mon, you little punk. I know you don’t get into fights over nothing.”

“Shuddup, jerk.” Matt muttered. Shiro paused, before moving on to Matt’s bloody lip. It was unlike Matt not to be ranting about how whoever he’d been fighting deserved much worse than they were gonna get from five-foot-nothing of lanky lab assistant. Matt pushed Shiro’s hands away from his face, huffing.

“If you ever want a dame to give you a second look you need to let me at that busted nose, you dolt,” Shiro said, frown flitting across his forehead.

The sunlight streaming through the high window caught Matt just above his forehead, and his hair shone like copper wire. His eyes darted upwards, golden, catching the light. His jaw clenched, chin tipping upwards. Tiny freckles were speckled across his cheekbones, his neck. His forehead was furrowed.

“Maybe I don’t want the dames to notice me,” he said, eyes blazing, “What about that, huh?”

Shiro’s eyes widened. “Hey.” Shiro leant in, resting his hands on the side of the tub. His left hand brushed against Matt’s hip. “Matt, please, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Matt jerked to his feet, almost bashing his head into Shiro's. The door stuck in the frame, and he jerked it open, letting it bang against the wall as he disappeared. Shiro sighed.

****

Shiro was walking to work, when it happened. His hands were shaking, shoved in his pockets, and he kept his head down, forelock falling in front of his eyes. He could feel the looks, the whispers, following him. His shoulders hunched, and his pace picked up. He wasn’t afraid. He was just… being a little more cautious than usual. Adapting to circumstance.

Yesterday, an American military base called Pearl Harbour had been bombed by the Japanese Navy.

The streets started to get busier, the crowd bumping at Shiro. It was rougher than normal, muttered slurs ringing in Shiro’s ears as he pressed onward.

Then shoulder shoved roughly against him and he staggered, head jerking up.

“Hey!” he said on instinct, rubbing his shoulder. A man stood there in an olive green uniform, face screwed up in anger. Shiro’s eyes widened.

The man just snarled, eyes wide, lunging for his collar,but he staggered back, twisting out of the man’s reach. His hands rose, trying to shield his face, but the next punch hammered into his forearms and they wavered, so he swiped at the man’s eyes, forcing him to back up.

A circle was forming around them, jeering men ready to see one of their own beat up a Jap. Never mind the fact he was one of them, had lived in this city his whole life. Never mind the fact he wasn’t even Japanese. He looked like the enemy, and that was enough.

His opponent tackled him around the waist. His head cracked against the cobblestones. He could taste the coppery tang of blood, and he shoved at the man, getting him in the abdomen, but he was quicker, a punch snapping into his cheek and his face met the sidewalk again. He struggled, trying to get to his feet, defend himself, but the man’s weight was crushing him, and the fists hit again and again and-

“GET OFF HIM!”

Oh fuck.

Shiro groaned, one eye already swelling, and he knew the tiny frame racing into the circle of onlookers, he knew those golden eyes that burned with rage.

“Matt get outta here-” he croaked, but Matt was already snarling and drawing his hand back, punching the man on top of Shiro with all the force in his noodle arms.

The man’s grip loosened, and Shiro bucked, twisting, struggling to his feet. He grabbed Matt by the arm and ran. Insults poured from Matt’s lips, snarled curses ringing on the cobblestones as they burst through the ring and out.

Shiro’s shoes slapped against the cobbles, Matt right alongside and already starting to wheeze. There was an alley, to the left. He darted in, paused for a moment to scoop Matt into his arms, and then ran on. Matt clung onto his neck, shouting insults behind him through wheezes and weak cackles. His knobby elbow dug into Shiro’s shoulder, and Shiro could feel blood trickling from his lip. Shiro’s heart was pounding, racing. Matt’s weight was warm, solid against him, like Matt’d never left, would never leave.

Shiro grinned, and ran on. His heart was soaring.

****

The night after the opening of the first internment camp, the sky was clear. He sat on the top of the rickety fire escape, looking up at the stars. When he was younger he dreamed of flying away, out the window to soar among them. He sighed, leaning forward. His weight pressed his palms into the grid of metal.

Orion’s Belt, there, pointing to the Dog Star. The Plough, leading up to the North Star.

The form in his pocket felt like a lead weight.

The sound of footsteps on metal rang out over the city clamour usual at this time of night. Shiro ran a hand through his hair, looking up at Matt with a tired smile.

Matt had that little furrow between his brows. He clambered down to sit next to Shiro, legs dangling over the city.

Shiro reached into his pocket, handed the still-crisp piece of paper over. Matt hesitated for a second before he took it, scanning the close-printed words, the neat handwriting and scribble of a signature.

“It’s just going to get worse,” Shiro said, voice not shaking. “ I thought if I enlisted, it might- I might-”

Matt cursed, quiet at first but growing louder. Shiro reached out, took his hand, held tight. Matt turned to him, eyes wet.

“They can’t do this, not here, they won’t lock people up-” Shiro laughed, sharp and bitter, and tipped his head back. Orion’s Belt. The North Star. Breathe. “Kashi-”

“They can. They have, over there. I’m just- I can’t-” Matt shook his head, tipped forward to rest on Shiro’s shoulder. “Shh, I’ll come back, I swear.”

He brought Matt’s hand up to his lips, pressed it there. He could do anything, tonight. Nothing he could do would make the slightest bit of difference. He screwed his eyes shut, and tugged Matt in closer, rested his forehead on Matt’s.

“I’ll come back,” he said “Then I won’t ever go again, never, nothing’ll make me-”

“You can’t promise that, you’re probably going to-” Matt’s voice cracked, and Shiro tightened his grip, taking a few frantic breaths. He could feel Matt’s breath brushing on his cheek,fast and shaky.

“I will come back to you, and then nothing’ll ever separate us again. If that’s what you want.”

Matt tipped his head back and met Shiro’s eyes, jaw set. “Of course it’s what I want, you stupid jerk.” His eyes were so beautiful, shining in the low light.

“OK. OK. I swear it then. Swear it by- by the stars. You and me. Till the stars stop shining. Promise.” Promises were easy to make, under the stars. Shiro couldn’t tell which one of them was trembling, they were so close. Maybe it was both.

Matt’s gaze flicked downward, then back up. He leant forward, tilting his head slightly, and Shiro could feel his breath, still shaky, brushing against his lips. Matt’s eyelids fluttered closed, and Shiro leant in, and they were kissing, teeth clacking together. Shiro leant back a little, adjusted the angle, and their lips slid together, smoother this time.

They stayed there, kissing softly, breathing against each other, muttering promises, and Shiro must’ve been a fool not to do this earlier.

****

****

Sam looked up from his paper as they climbed back in through the window.

“Finally,” he sighed, “Anymore weighted silences or longing gazes and I was going to lock both of you in the lab freezer until you worked it all out.”

****

The starched uniform felt weird, stiff against Shiro’s skin. The crowd bumped against his shoulders, goodbye kisses and be back before you know it’s and mothers with tears in their eyes. Matt was frowning, crossed arms and tense shoulders. Shiro stood with his back ramrod straight, searching for words. Sam looked between them, hands tucked into his pockets.

“When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain,” he intoned, and Shiro turned to him, grinned.

“Oh, don’t you start,” Matt groaned, “I thought the Macbeth would be gone with Kashi.”

Shiro’s smile turned softer, wrinkled the corners of his eyes. “You’d better not do anything stupid while I’m gone,” he teased.

Matt rolled his eyes. “Jerk.”

“Punk.” Shiro shoved his hand gently against Matt’s shoulder, wishing he could do more. Matt rocked with the motion, slumped. “Hey.” Matt looked up. “‘Stars, remember?”

Matt’s eyes softened. “Yeah. I remember.”

Shiro nodded, turned to Sam. “Keep an eye on him. And on yourself, you hear?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam shook his head, looked up to the sky. “Always with the mother-henning. Be off with you, you’ll be late.” There were lines of tension around his eyes.

Shiro took a deep breath, smiled at them both, then turned on his heel and let the crowd swallow him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art for this chapter was made by the lovely Cupcake, and can be found here   
> http://cupcakeismynamebitchez.tumblr.com/post/167400769906/i-really-wish-i-had-done-a-better-job-but-here-is !!!


	3. FALL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what we're doing,  
> I don't know what we've done.  
> But the fire is coming,  
> So I think we should run.  
> -Run, Daughters

The rifle was heavy in Shiro’s hands, awkward. He sighted down the barrel, tuning out the drill sergeant's barked commands, and held his breath. Someone had painted a swastika on the straw target. His bullet didn’t come close to it, missing the target entirely. He cursed sharply under his breath. 

****

In the silence of the barracks at night, the sound of hitched breath, muffled tears, was hard to miss. Shiro ached just listening, but wrestled down the desire to help. He’d just get punched again. Nothing he could say could make Pt. Jones, who was over 18 only if pigs had sprouted wings recently, any less scared. 

****

His bullet tore into the arm of the swastika, and Shiro ejected the spent round and reloaded smoothly, frowning. 

****

The soldiers disembarking from the boat that’d take Shiro to the front lines had pools of nothingness for eyes. He pushed everything down, and waited to board.

At least Matt wasn’t here. 

****

The trenches were brown, when they weren’t gunpowder-flashing-white. It wasn’t the deep, rich brown of tilled earth, of their neighbours skin, of growing things. It was a cloying, gray-tinted brown, the kind you’d get if you mixed every color of paint together. Mud and worse things lay underfoot, sucking at his boots, clogging the barrel of his gun. His unit was assigned to a mission, march into enemy territory. They were disposable, after all.

****

The uniforms of their captors had a strange, spiked insignia on the breast. Some of them wore masks, long and pointed. His breath kept catching in his throat, his eyes stuck on their guns, their boots, their fists. He focused in the little details, the things he’d put in his report once he got back. 

If he got back.

****

The cell was cramped, stinking of sweat and blood and fear. Shiro sat with his back against a wall, knees against his chest, knocking into at least three other men. He missed the weight of his rifle. 

****

They tried to take Pt. Jones, and he stood up, shouted at them, pushed and shoved until they took him instead, and he could hear his heart thumping, rushing in his ears, battering against his chest. His feet scuffed against the floor, scrabbling for purchase. They had him around his elbows, his hands chained together, but Matt wouldn’t’ve gone quietly, so neither would he. 

****

The table was metal. It was unyielding against his back, rivets digging in along his spine. He gritted his teeth and said nothing. The masked figures drifted around him, tapping syringes and taking notes. A needle jabbed into his thigh, and he flinched, but the restraints were locked around his ankles and knees and chest and elbows and wrists. A face hovered over his, mad eyes in a dark hood, the nightmare flash of a grin. He couldn’t move, couldn’t jerk away from the fire running into his veins, could barely thrash. His jaw clenched, screams locked in his throat, and he said nothing and nothing and nothing.

****

Days or months or hours later, Matt burst through the lab doors. His eyes were wild, and he wasn’t wheezing, didn’t look at all out of breath, which was how Shiro knew he wasn’t real. That and the blue and red and white outfit he had on. Still, it was nice to see him again. 

“Shiro?” Matt asked, moving across the room in a split second. His face hovered above Shiro’s, and he cursed softly, gently. He reached out, fumbled at the leather binding Shiro down.

He watched Matt, eyes half-lidded. Breath rattled from his chest, caught in his throat. The things he saw often weren’t as nice as Matt. He wanted Matt to stay, instead of the Druids. Instead of Her. Matt cursed again, louder. The constant pressure around Shiro’s left arm loosened. His fingers tingled as blood rushed into them, and the pain of it made his eyes shoot fully open. 

“Matt?” he croaked, brow furrowing.

“Yeah Kashi, it’s me.” Matt freed his leg, then started on his chest. His hands were shaking slightly, and he fumbled the buckles several times. “I’m gonna get you outta here.” The leather straps slid free, and Matt moved onto the ones on his other arm, leaning across his body. Matt’s weight pressed onto his sternum, warm and heavy and real. Shiro shifted, flexing his fingers, his eyes fixed on Matt’s. 

“What… How...” he murmured.

Matt gave him a tight smile, eyes flicking up to his forehead and staying there. “Long story. Sam and Slav got the All-Cure to work,” he offered, tugging on the strap around Shiro’s right wrist.

Arms free, Shiro levered himself up onto his elbows, his head spinning. His bangs flopped into his eyes, and his eyes caught on them. Had they always been white?

Matt finished with the restraints around his legs, sliding an arm around him. 

“C’mon, you big jerk,” he said, and Shiro struggled to get his legs to hold his weight, Matt couldn't- but Matt lifted him smoothly, impossibly, carrying him to the door. 

“Th’ others?” he asked, his feet dragging on the floor, feet shuffling in an approximation of a walk, “What abou-”

“On their way out, hopefully. I opened all the doors,” Matt’s teeth flashed. “Let’s get you outta here with them, yeah?

**** 

The campfires were a flickering glow in the distance. Shiro’d volunteered for first watch. His hand was shaking, clenched into a fist.

_burning in his veins_

The air out here was chill, and it caught in his lungs. 

_masks hovering over him_

Footsteps from behind, crunching through the leaves. He looked up. Matt was picking his way through the undergrowth, frowning at the brambles. The white star on his chest shone, could be seen from a mile off. Stupid.

_metal against his back_

“Hey, stranger,” Shiro said, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. Matt looked up, and his dumb face broke into a grin. Shiro’s smile got a little realer at the sight.

“Hey yourself.” Matt leant against the tree next to his, mirroring his position. “How you holding up?”

_couldn’t move couldn’t scream couldn’t thrash_

“Fine. Surprised to see you looking so spry, though.” Shiro raised an eyebrow.

Matt ducked his head, grinning. “Well ‘s like I said. The All-Cure worked for me. I got good lungs now. I’m strong.” He looked up again, practically wiggling with excitement. “I heal fast, and I got out of the show thing Iverson had me doing, I can fight and-”

“Matt,” Shiro interrupted, “you let them test the All-Cure? On you?”

Matt’s grin dropped. “Well. Yeah. I wasn’t just gonna wait around while you risked your life, was I?”

“Yes, you were.” Shiro stood straighter, uncrossed his arms. “Sam said you weren’t ready for human trials, you’d barely started on the mice when I left. What, you finish the whole shebang in a coupl’a months? I told you not to do anything stupid, and you go and-”

“It worked.” Matt’s jaw shifted, stuck out in that stubborn way he had. “They’re calling it super-soldier serum, now. It made me stronger, faster, better than anyone else-”

“Oh yeah? Better than anyone, huh?” Shiro’s face twisted into a smile, and he knew it was mean, mocking. “What, you gonna beat up all the Krauts, end the war, just like that?”

“Well, no, but-”

“And when they give the All-Cure, serum, whatever, when they give it to everyone else? What use are you then, huh?”

“They can’t.” Matt’s fists were clenched too now, voice harder.

“Why fuckin’ not? What’s stopping them from-”

“Slav’s the only one who can make it, and he’s fucking dead!”

They were both breathing heavily. Shiro’s fist was shaking, still. He turned, put his back against the tree. Matt was supposed to be home. He was _supposed_ to be safe. Not glaring at him in the middle of a forest in bloody Europe.

“Galra agent got him. Bullet to the head.” Matt sounded clipped, angry. “All that work, all those _years,_ and he just-” Matt takes a deep, rattling breath. “It was just gone.” His voice cracked just a little on the last word.

Shiro’s eyes fluttered closed. All the fury had drained out of him. “Sam alright?”

“Yeah. He flew me out here. Should be waiting back at base.” Matt’s boots crunched through the undergrowth, coming closer. Shiro tensed. “Kashi, what is it? What’s wro-”

“Told you already, didn’t I?” Shiro pushed off the tree, headed back to the fires. “I’m fine.”

****

That night, Shiro seized awake 5 times, jaw clenched so hard his teeth almost crack. The canvas of the tent was nothing like a steel-brushed ceiling. The near-total darkness was nothing like the blinding surgical lights. The sound of Matt’s loud snores was nothing like the muttered German, the click of a scalpel being set down. He lay on his back, shaking, and didn’t know what was real. 

****

They marched into the camp like a thunderstorm. Matt led them, with Shiro just behind. The others, about 150 escaped prisoners, men declared dead, followed them. They had been through hell and back again. The star on the front of Matt’s uniform gleamed, never mind 3 days of marching through mud and rain and forest. Matt was walking with his head held high, stubbornness radiating from him in waves. Shiro could barely look at him, still too relieved and scared and worried and angry. 

Sam joined them when they were about halfway to the command tent, scrambling to the front and punching Matt in the shoulder. He grinned at Shiro, nodding at Matt with the raised eyebrows of pride. Shiro threw back a tight smile, and tried his best to make it look real. 

****

“You need a weapon,” Shiro said, leaning against the tent pole. The words were meant as an apology, but came out a little too harsh. 

“What?” Matt was lying on his bedroll, arm thrown over his head.

“You’ve got this whole _image_ thing. Captain America.” Shiro had heard the whispers, seen the glances. “All the soldiers, they’re talking about you.” 

Matt’s nose wrinkled. “Yeah. And?” 

“We can use it. You already stand out in that stupid uniform-” Shiro flicked the star on Matt’s chest “-and if you get a distinctive weapon then you’ll be recognisable.”

Matt sat up, frowning slightly. “Why would I want to be recognisable?”

“They’re talking about you, punk.” Shiro leant in closer, intense. “Captain America, he can lift a tank with one hand! He can take out a whole base without any backup! He can-”

“-do anything,” Matt breathed, eyes widening. “Captain America can do anything, and the Krauts, they’ll be whispering too-”

“Yeah, they will. If we get you a weapon, something distinctive, something that does damage.” Shiro’s forehead creased “A pistol is too pedestrian. Everyone has a pistol. Captain America needs more than that.”

“Sam’ll have something. Or he’ll know someone who has something.” Matt grinned up at him, eyes fond. “We get this right, half the time the Galra will be running away from us!”

“Us?” Shiro asked. 

“Well, yeah,” Matt looked up at him, head tilted slightly. “You and me. I already told the general, you’re on my team. Till the stars go out, right?”

Shiro could’ve gone home.The medical discharge papers were filled out, just had to be handed in. There was a streak of mud across Matt’s forehead, one he hadn’t noticed. Matt was _here._ And there was danger here. 

_long hair tied back, a scar running down her cheek, grinning as he screamed and screamed_

He wanted to go back, of fucking course he wanted to be safe, to be home. But Matt and Sam were here. Someone had to take care of them. He had promised, after all. 

Shiro took in a deep breath, sat down. “Yeah. Till the stars stop shining. Let’s take the Galra down.”

****

Their first mission was a supply line. It was just outside Allied territory, close enough they didn’t really have to sneak. Matt’s new shield was painted like a target, a dare, rings of red and blue around a white star. The two of them camped out close to the road, took down the trucks as they came rumbling along. Shiro tried to joke, say something about Matt’s hair blending into the trees, but the words got tangled up on his tongue.

****

Sam came with them sometimes. He identified the Galra’s strange guns and machines, stole their blueprints. The three of them kept winning, taking the bases down, razing supply lines. The whispers became louder, the glances more revenant. They were living legends.

****

Shiro could hit a target ten times out of ten, pinpoint accuracy. Once, when he was filing away a report, he got a papercut. He held his finger up to his face, watching the wound seal up. It was gone without a trace by a minute later. 

He still dreamed of fire in his veins, metal at his back. He woke up with his jaw clenched, and was thankful that he didn’t wake Matt by screaming. Matt needed the sleep, needed to be on top form, needed to _survive._

****

Shiro wasn’t invited to the strategic meetings Matt attended whenever they were in camp. They were top secret, Iverson blustered. Strictly need-to-know. Nevermind that Shiro was the one coming up with Cerberus’s mission plans most of the time. Matt ranted about it to him, about the _trustworthy_ candidates for his team he kept being offered, about the talk of cameras coming in, about Matt hating taking the credit for Shiro’s work. Shiro ran his hands through Matt’s hair, and said nothing.

***

“Did you hear what they’re calling us now?” Sam asked, between bites of canned beans. 

“Is it good?” Shiro said, scrubbing his hand over his face. 

“S’alright. Comics’ve picked it up.”

“Not the damn comics,” Matt groaned. “Hate those stupid things. They made Kashi a teenager and called him fucking _Sven.”_

Sam snorted at the memory. “Well, technically-” Matt threw a twig in Sam’s direction. “Hey! _Technically,_ Shiro’s 6, so.” Sam spread his hands, shrugging. Shiro rolled his eyes. 

“Well?” Shiro asked, “What’s our new team name?”

“Cerberus.” Sam leant forward, face illuminated by their campfire.“Team Cerberus, like the Greek dog thing.” 

Shiro’s head tilted. “Nice. Three heads, three of us, yeah?”

‘The strategist, the soldier, and the scientist.’ Matt parrotted, sneering at the tagline. “Only question is who’s which goddamn one.”

****

They fought like hellhounds, Shiro thought, reloading behind a flaming truck. Matt was practically snarling beside him, fingers white-knuckled around the edge of his shield. Bullets pinged against the metal behind them, voices shouting orders in harsh German. He felt the heat of an explosion to his left, and smiled crookedly. Sam was holding out. He clicked the chamber of his pistol back into place, and threw Matt a nod. Matt grinned, eyes golden and shining. They stood in unison, turning to fight.

****

The floor of the train rattled beneath their feet. Shiro stood guard, watching the doors to their carriage. Sam cursed behind him, but he resisted the urge to turn. 

“No, you need to-”

“Shuddup.” Sam moaned. “I’m a goddamn-” A clink of metal on metal, a muttered curse. “-biologist, why am I even here?” 

“You’re _here_ ‘cause you’re a genius, dumbass. Now get that working,” Shiro could practically _feel_ the eyeroll Matt was directing at Sam. 

He glanced towards them, looking down the narrow aisle. Still empty, save for crates of bullets. 

Shiro turned back just in time to catch the Galra guard’s eye. 

“We’ve got company,” he snapped, raising his pistol as the guard disappeared. 

Matt appeared beside him, shield already up. “Where?”

“Single grunt. Next carriage. Gone for reinforcements.” 

Sam’s curses rose slightly in volume. Shiro turned.

“Sam, how close are you?” he asked. 

“The charges are all primed, it’s just this _blasted_ transmitter. I can fix it, I just need time.”

“We’ll want to be off the train when they blow,” Matt added, eyeing the door. 

Sam groaned, fingers flying across the device. “I can’t rewire this on the move.”

“OK.” Shiro said, glancing back. “Let’s move these crates. We can barricade that door,” he pointed past Matt, “and leave through the other, once Sam’s done.”

Matt nodded, marching to a shelf and pulling down a crate half his size. Shiro started, still unused to the casual way Matt handled things that could crush him. He shook it off, holstering his pistol and striding to grab a crate of his own.

****

Of course, Shiro reflected, clinging with all he had, everything had to go wrong. 

The guards came through their exit, and Sam’s hand slipped, the wires sparking. The blasts tore the walls apart, the metal screeching. 

Matt grabbed the both of them by the arms, running towards the hole. Shiro had got his feet under him, but a bullet tore through his right forearm, and he stumbled. Matt jumped in the next instant.

The train was careering into a ravine, wheels blown off the tracks. The gap was widening every second. 

The tracks ran along a narrow cliff, dug into the side of the valley. It’s edge was sharp, digging into Shiro’s armpits. Matt’s arm was thin, all bones. Sam had made it, sprawled onto the snow, but Matt’s leg had hung off. Was hanging off, his legs were kicking in midair. 

“Kashi!”

Shiro looked at his fingers, clenched around Matt. He looked at the tracks, at Matt’s hips, the way they were slipping. He looked into Matt’s golden eyes, and smiled.

He let go. 

****

The snowflakes caught on his eyelashes, afterwards. Everything hurt, everything screamed. He blinked, once, tried to turn his head. The ground was red. A shadow fell over him, and he slipped into unconsciousness. 


	4. WINTER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time goes quicker  
> Between the two of us  
> Oh, my love, don’t forsake me  
> Take what the water gave me  
> -What The Water Gave Me, Florence and the Machine.

They put him on another train.

Shiro didn't know where it was taking him, or who held him captive. He sat in a corner, breathing through the pain. His arm, his right arm was gone. His shoulder was screaming, like a knife constantly twisting through his blood and bone and muscle. 

His other hand wouldn't stop shaking. The blanket they’d left him scratched against his bare skin. His breath plumed in the air. 

He didn't know what had happened to Matt and Sam. How long had it been? Hours? Days? Where were they taking him?

****

The next cell was and damp, and cold. The floor was stained. The other prisoners gave each other a wide berth, eyes on the floor. He should rally them, try to escape, but he was so _tired._ His arm, no, his stump throbbed. It was hard to think past the pain. He slumped, back to a wall, and watched the guards rotation. There was a strange noise at the edge of his hearing, a roar. It rose and fell, sometimes disappearing completely but never for long. 

**** 

Rough hands around his arm, twisting it up behind his back. An old sack pulled over his head, scratching against his forehead. He’s dragged nearer to the noise, the roar. It was a crowd, he suddenly realised, it was hundreds of people cheering and laughing and shouting. 

He stumbled forward onto sand, and the bag was ripped off his head. He squinted in the light. The room, the arena, was massive. He could see the sky, the heavy clouds. Guards stood at attention around the perimeter of the ring, and the spiked insignia was everywhere. 

This was where they sent their prisoners to die. 

There was a beast of a man waiting in the ring, tall and heavyset, leering. A scar stretched across his face, eye to chin. Fresh blood was splattered on his breastplate, and his hands were covered in it. One of them gripped the hilt of a mace, the spiked ball at it’s end swinging freely. 

Shiro bared his teeth, hand opening and closing. He wasn’t going to lie down and die here. 

The Galran moved, swinging the mace up. Shiro dove to the left, rolling to his feet. He needed to stay mobile, he was smaller, weaker, but faster, he can- The ball flicked out, and he stumbled back. The crowd roared. 

Shiro got his feet back under him, bounced on his toes. He was injured, at every disadvantage. Normally he’d prolong a fight like this- the Galran had been fighting for a few rounds, and he was fresh- but he was already injured, and unfed, and tiring fast. 

Shiro waited, let the Galran turn and bellow battlecries. The armour he was wearing must be heavy. It was in plates, shoulder and arm and chest. The two of them paced, moving in circles. The Galran shifted, swinging his mace in a figure-of-eight, and Shiro sees a flash of skin. He swung again, building momentum, and Shiro faced him, snarled. There, the bunching of muscle, _he was going to move, NOW._

He ran forward, jabbed his fingers into the Galran’s armpit, the gap between the plates. He used the Galran’s knee as a springboard, his own knee clanging against the breastplate. His fingers closed around the handle of the mace, yanked. The Galran’s other hand scrabbled at his neck. He yanked again, twisted, and the mace jerked free. The rags they’d put him in ripped in the Galran’s grasp, and he kicked, squirmed his way free.

He grinned, ferocious. The grip was slimy in his fingers. The Galran roared in anger, charged at him. He swung, the ball clattering against the Galran’s breastplate. It bounced off, and he spun with the momentum, lashing out to whack the Galran in the side of the head. The Galran stumbled, swiping at him, and he scrambled back, bringing the mace around again. The Galran’s helmet rung like a bell, and his body slumped to the floor. 

Shiro was shaking. His ears rung. He looked up, at the guards, but they were as still as statues. He scanned the crowd, too far away to see faces. They were shouting, but he could barely hear anything. He was meant to die here.

The mace was heavy. He was so tired. He adjusted his grip, clutching on to the weapon. There was a box, banners of the Galra insignia and the red-and-black swastika. His eyes swept over the suits, the monocles, but stuck on one figure with long, white hair. 

A shiver ran down his spine. She was smiling.

****

This time, they led him with a gun barrel knocking against the back of his skull. They knew he was dangerous now, and that sent a thrill through his gut. He tossed his head, trying to see anything through the thick burlap. They yanked him to a stop and he stumbled, almost lost his footing. His stump bumped against one of the guards and he flinched back, black spots swimming across his vision.

There was a heavy sound of metal sliding against metal, then a creak. He barely had time to tense before he was thrown forward. He staggered straight into a wall, shoulder-first. The door slammed shut behind him. 

New cell. He reached up, tugged away the sack. It was dark, so black the sack didn’t make any difference. He reached out, fingers brushing the wall. His foot slid backwards until it jammed against the metal of the door. 

He reached to the side, and found stone. He turned, heart sinking. The cell had enough room to stand, or sit with his knees curled. There was no crack of light around the door, no bars. 

He sat, good side facing the door, and seethed.

****

They hadn’t brought him any food. Not even sludge.

****

He made the right choice, of course he did. Matt was slipping. He had to let go. 

****

_snowflakes hovering in midair, still because he was falling with them-_ He jerked awake.

_****_

Thirst crackled in the back on his throat. His hands brushed against the ceiling, the streach burning his muscles. The stone wasn’t damp. There was no water. 

****

“Let me OUT!”he rasped, hand pounding into the metal of the door. 

****

_fingernails stroking along his face as he screamed, fire in his lungs and throat and muscles and veins-_

****

Matt and Sam thought he was dead. They saw him fall, fall and fall and- was he dead? How could he be alive? 

His hands fisted in his hair. No. He was alive, he fought the Galran, he _won,_ it was them, the Galra, they put him in here and he was so thirsty and-

****

He noticed the smell, first. Bleach, but more than that. Bleach and stale blood, blood and pus and worse fluids. It hovered around her like perfume. That smell had worked it’s way into his hindbrain, making him tense even before he was fully conscious.

The door opened, and he flinched at the light. 

A figure was silhouetted in the doorway. She leant down, reached out. He cowered away, but there was nowhere to go. Her nails were neat, clipped short, but he shuddered at the feel of them against his jaw. 

“Welcome, Champion,” She whispered, voice smooth and poisonous. “Shall we?”

He said nothing. 

****

The labs, at least, were familiar. The metal against his back, the restraints tight around his arm and legs, the way they talked over and around him. She was the only one that talked to him. 

“быть спокойным,” she said, “Be still, my Champion, be calm and we will make you strong.”

 

She’d trickled water into his mouth, a little at a time. She’d commanded the guards carry him here. He wondered why they thought they’d need restraints. He was so weak he could barely lift his head, but they’d strapped it down anyway. They’d taken away his uniform, what was left of it. Everyone else in the room was wearing a mask, except for Her. 

He’d noticed that. She didn’t like the medical masks. She leant over him, hair tied back, and flicked the syringe she held. An absurd image rose in his mind, her in one of the guards full-face helmets. 

She was on his right. She reached down, pressing his shoulder into the metal, and the constant pain of it spiked. He bit down on a groan. HIs eyes were fixed on the syringe, on the yellow liquid inside. 

She smiled, and slid the needle into his upper arm, pressing on the plunger. 

****

The axe thudded into the blood-soaked sand. He was dancing, slipping away from the attacks like smoke, and his opponent was starting to slip. The attacks were becoming wilder, less controlled. 

His opponent’s eyes darted upward, their grip on the handle shifting, and he knew they were going to strike. He took a single step backwards as the axe-blade whistled past him, then darted in, pivoting around his shoulder. His fist hit his opponent's chin, snapping their head back, and they stumbled, woozy. 

They hit the sand, and he straightened.

****

It was always the same. Fight, then darkness, then labs. 

****

They had done something to his stump. It felt- different. Wrong. He twisted his neck, trying to catch a glimpse through the blurry vision the sedative always caused. The shape of it was different, less rounded, and there was _metal sticking out of him and-_

****

“This time,” She said, “Both you and your opponent will be armed with guns. 6 bullets. The allocated area for the fight will be larger, and there will be obstacles. Here is the layout.” She held a piece of paper over him, and he registered the shapes, blocks and gates and places to hide. 

“Why are you telling me this?” he gasped, fire running through him, stump screaming with pain. 

“Champion,” she crooned, “you need to win. I’m not done with you yet.”

****

In the darkness, he shook, tears running down his face. It was worth it. He made the right choice. 

Think of Matt, think of his face, his eyes are golden. 

Were golden. She’d shown his the newspapers. Stupid Matt, stupid, crashing a plane into the ocean, he’s always so goddamn heroic-

****

This time, they didn’t put him on a table. He stood, at attention with three guns pointed his way, and they lowered something over his head. She positioned herself in front of him, reached out and closed his eyes. 

“быть спокойным,” she whispered.

Then the electricity crackled, and he started to scream.

****

He fell forward, crashing to the floor. Everything _hurt,_ and he didn’t know where he was. He looked up, and a woman was crouching in front of him. She was young, and almost pretty, but there was something in her eyes, her smile, that made him shiver. 

“It’s alright,” she said, voice slightly accented. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Yes,” he gasped, shakes still racing through him. “Yes, I’m-” He stopped. What was his name? He should know this, he should- “I’m-”

“Don’t fret,” the woman said again, smiling. “Your name is Champion. You’re a fighter, in the Arena. You always win.”

His head was spinning. There was something wrong, there was something that he couldn’t put a finger on. He gritted his teeth. His name, what was his name. And there was something else, something important, but his head was spinning.

“Shhh, Champion.” The woman’s hand rested on his head, nails running through his hair. HIs skin crawled. He couldn’t think.

What was his name? She just told him, he should know, it was- it was- it was Champion, wasn’t it? It had to be. 

****

He made the right choice. 

What did he choose?

****

The electricity sparked. He screamed. 

****

They only sent a single guard to escort him to the ring. Champions eyes kept flicking to the guards rifle. He was safe here. He always won. He noticed the loose way the guard was holding the gun. He could grab it. 

Where would he go? What could he do? He didn’t know. 

****

“This fight should be easy,” she’d said. Champion strode forward, onto the sand. “The opponent will be weak. You are strong.” The opponent was weak. The thin, gaunt stature of a front-line troop, a uniform hanging off him. Her nails had stroked against his arm, clicking against the metal. Champion knew the uniform. Where was it from? “I’ve made you strong,” she’d purred. 

The fight was easy.

****

He walked next to his guard. They did not stop at the entrance to the small dark room, and he frowned. The guard led him on, led him to the labs. She was waiting, smiling in the special way she only directed at him. 

“We’ve got something new,” she said. 

They placed him in a box, and it was dark, and he relaxed. They had just moved the darkness, not taken it away. 

Then the box started to get cold, and he stiffened.

****

The door opened, and he gasped awake. His teeth were chattering, and he stumbled forward. She was waiting, like she always was when he came out of the dark. 

“быть спокойным,” she said, and words wanted to burst out of him, pleading or begging, he’d been good, hadn’t he?

The machine was lowered over his head, and he remained still.

****

“This time,” She whispered, “there will be several opponents. One of them has a single eye. He is the most dangerous. Kill him first.”

****

Champion scanned the ring, eyes skipping over the largest opponent. He dodged a blow, twirling away and heading unerringly to the only one without a weapon, a man with the scar splitting open his eyelid, the man running away.

****

The cold settled around him. 

****

The electricity crackled, and he screamed.

****

“This time, the ring will be different,” She said. “There won’t be an audience. This is your opponent,” She held out a picture, and he took it. Black hair. Brown eyes. Large mole on the forehead. “Kill him as quickly as you can.”

****

He sat, back straight, and 4 guards watched him. The van was swaying, the floor tipping and turning. He leant with it, took the bumps. They’d given him a mask, and it locked around his jaw. He couldn’t open his mouth. 

****

The man with the mole on his forehead opened the door to his car and got out, suit jacket flapping around him. Champion knew the guards were at all the entrances. This place was a ring like any other. 

Champion walked forward, striding to the man. He looked up, scowling. Champions metal hand closed around his throat. When he was dead, Champion stood at attention, waiting for the guards to come. 

****

The cold settled around him. 

****

“быть спокойным.”

She opened up his arm again. They didn’t need restraints for this anymore. He was good. 

A scalpel brushed against his nerve, and he choked a scream. He needed to lie still, or it would hurt more. She smiled, and the end of the scalpel turned, prodded again. A whine slipped out of him. The beginnings of wrinkles were forming around her hairline.

“In your next fight,” she said, “Do not kill your opponent. Harm him, but not fatally.” He fought against the tremors in his limbs, the parts of him that wanted to run. He had to be good.

****

The electricity sparked, and he screamed.

****

This time was the same as normal, they told him. Routine. The guards were waiting in the forest, ready to establish a perimeter. Champion was standing in the centre of the road. His opponent would be driving a car, a Rolls Royce. 

The darkness would help him. The night was cloudy, and cold. The trees had no leaves. His eyes had adjusted, but the driver’s eyes would not have. The mask would obscure his face.

Two beams of light raced down the road, towards him. Champion lowered his head. 

The light hit him and the brakes screeched, the car swerving. It hit a tree with a scream of metal, and the windshield smashed. The headlights went out.

Maybe his opponent was already dead. He strode forward, arm activating. The woman in the passenger seat was slumped, her head lolling. There were sounds from the other side of the car, grunts and cries for help. Champions head tilted to one side. He walked around the car. 

The man in the driver’s seat had grey, thin hair. It seemed wrong on him. He had a deep cut on his shoulder, and small cuts covering his face, likely from the windscreen. He was reaching for the woman, trying to make her wake. She was not going to wake. 

Champions arm thrummed to life. The violet tinged light reflected off the shining metal, catching in the driver’s eyes as he turned to look. Champion cut through the crumpled metal of the door easily, reaching in and dragging his opponent onto the gravel.

“Shiro?” his opponent gasped, looking up at him. His hand jolted open, sending the man sprawling. 

What was- His name was Champion, he was a fighter. He always won. He flicked his arm back into life. 

“Hey, hey there pal, go easy there.” His opponent had stood, and his hands were out. Placenting. Champion’s breathing shuddered and shook. “Easy. I’m your friend, I’m Sam, remember?”

This man was more dangerous than the others. He was making Champion’s hands shake, making his head throb. Champion bought his arm up, ready to swing. His opponent backed away a few paces, hands still raised in surrender. 

The guards would be getting nervous. Champion needed to be good. 

“Yes you do, Shiro-”

That name made his head hurt. The mask stopped him from speaking, so he yelled wordlessly instead, trying to loom.

“OK. OK,” his opponent said, hand raising to run through his hair. “You-You look the same. Are you even real? Am I just- What’s-”

Champion paced forward, shudders running down his spine. 

“Why are you doing this?” his opponent asked, backing away.

He has to be good. He has to win. Champion kept walking, matching the pace of his opponent. 

“Matt’s dead.” His opponent’s voice was steady. “He died a long time ago. Neither of us can bring him back.”

Champion snarled, and burst towards him. He braced, blocking Champion’s first swing with crossed forearms. Champion’s burning hand twisted, clutching for the cut on his shoulder, and he screamed, scrambling away. Champion followed him, twisting into a sweeping slash. It caught him across the ribs, knocking him to the ground. 

He stayed down, and the sound of his breathing was wrong. Punctured lung, from the broken ribs. His eyes were so wide. They were golden. 

“Shiro,” he coughed, and Champion sat next to him. “Why- why…” his voice trailed off, but his eyes. His eyes were golden, and questioning, and Champion shook. He reached across, hand covering the man’s throat. His arm activated.

Champion’s head was reeling. He won, he survived, why was everything crashing and ringing and-

There was a gap in the clouds, and he could a star there. It was shining, still, and he keened, crumpling to the floor. 

The stars were shining and he made the right choice and Matt was dead and Sam was dead and it was him it was all him what had he done what had he _done-_

His radio crackled to life, an unfamiliar voice though the tone was urgent. “быть спокойным,” it said, and he froze. He shifted, lay down flat on his back, and waited.

****

The electricity crackled, and he screamed, and screamed, and screamed. 

****

“Your name is Champion,” she hissed, “You are a fighter in the arena. You are loyal to the Galra.”

No, he thought, a moment of clarity washing over him. He wasn’t loyal to _them_. He’d never been loyal to them, and he clutched that thought like a lifeline.


	5. SPRING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said, hey, girl with one eye  
> Get your filthy fingers out of my pie.  
> I said, hey, girl with one eye  
> I'll cut your little heart out cause you made me cry.  
> -Girl With One Eye, Florence and the Machine

He stood at the centre of the arena. The sands were shifting under his feet, moaning and hissing. He looked up at the rows and rows of people, their faces shadowed, and waited for instruction. 

The roof of the arena opened, and the sky was full of stars. They were golden, and beautiful. The Plough. The Dog Star, the brightest of all. They sung, soft sweet music, and he reached out, reached up-

His hands were coated in dark reddish brown. He frowned down at them. They were the color of dried blood, blood soaked into his skin, under his fingernails. He rubbed at the crust, trying to get it off. It fell to the sand and splashed.There was a pool at his feet. He rubbed again, clawing at his arms, but there was always more blood, caked into his pores. He moaned, low, and scrubbed harder. The pool was up to his ankles, rich red, and he tried to step away but he couldn’t move his legs, his feet were stuck to the sand and the blood and he looked up-

The people. The audience, he reached out-

They were dead. He choked, trying to step back. The tiered seats were filled with bodies. Slit throats lolled open. Burns warped the skin, jagged edged to mortal wounds. Bone jutted out of skin, brain matter spilling and blood everywhere and-

The pool was at his lower thighs, rising and rising, pouring from his palms. He turned around, but behind him the seats still rose, still full. He was gasping for breath, he realised, hands fisted in his hair. The blood dripped down his face, soaked into his skin. The smell of it was everywhere, the iron tang filling the air.

He held out his hands in front of him, eyes fixed on the red rivulets running down his forearms. He’d killed them. The blood lapped at his abdomen. He shook his head, closed his eyes, looked up.

The stars were going out. One by one, winking away, and he shivered. He couldn’t hear the music anymore, and the silence punched him in the gut, made him shudder. 

The blood washed around his chest, rising and rising. It was warm. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the holes in the sky, the places where there should’ve been stars. 

He was going to drown in the blood pouring from his hands, he was going to die here, on the sand, with corpses watching him. The stars were gone. His legs were rooted, stuck to the sand, he couldn’t move, couldn’t swim, couldn’t-

The blood washed over his face, and he woke.

****

“This time,” she hissed, “You are not to kill your opponent. He has potential.” Her hair was grey, and long, and tangled. 

_What are these, so wither'd and so wild in their attire, that look not like the inhabitants of the earth and yet are on’t?_

The phrase flowed through his mind like water. He knelt before her, silent and obedient, and thought of witches. 

****

The arena seats were empty. A boy was waiting, a teen, purposefully slouched. He flipped a knife over his fingers. He was young, slight, but his eyes were sharp. They tracked Champion’s progress, assessing.

Champion stood to attention. There was a man, tough and bald, who told the boy that this lesson was about humility. The boy said nothing, fingers shifting on the knife’s hilt. 

“Spar,” the bald instructor said. “To first blood. Begin.”

The boy burst into motion. His knife flashed towards Champion’s throat. Champion flowed around the move, used the boy’s momentum to send him tumbling to the floor, turning with the move. The boy rolled gracefully into a crouch, knife up. He sprang, going low, and Champion danced away, trapping the boy’s hand under his foot. The knife turned, seeking his ankle. He reached down with his right hand. Its strength forced the boy’s fingers apart. A small nick on the back of the boy’s hand, and the fight was over.

Champion returned to attention. The instructor was sneering at the boy, shouting about discipline. The boy’s eyes remained on Champion. 

****

The electricity crackled, and he choked down a scream. 

****

The cold settled around him, and he reached out, placed his palm flat on the thick glass door.

**** 

He lay on a hard metal table, wizened fingers raking through his hair. A soft voice explained the details of his next fight. He would strike from within the opponent's home, silently. Her husband would wake the next morning sharing his bed with a corpse.

He killed to survive. If he failed, his opponent would kill him. 

****

He looked at the couple sleeping, and wondered how they were a threat. In the corner of his eye, he saw a flash. Light reflecting off a sniper scope. The guards. They had guns, and tasers, and the machine-

_sparked-_

The guards were the threat. If he failed, they would kill him. If he hesitated, or acted oddly, they would say the words and bring him to the labs. He stored that observation, and gently slit the sleeping womans throat.

****

The boy in the red jacket was fast, Champion noted. Quick with the knife, knew how to fight. He stepped forward, arm swinging. The boy ducked under the punch, scrambling closer. The knife was jabbing, looking for his abdomen. Champion’s flesh hand slammed into his forearm, fist forcing the blade down, away. 

“Fuck you,” the boy hissed, fist flying at Champion’s face. Champion swayed to the side, turning the boys knife to nick through that red jacket. First blood, and the match was his. He stepped back, stood to attention.

****

The boy in the red jacket held his weight low. His eyes were hard, locked on Champion. His knife was angled, waiting. His weight shifted slowly from foot to foot, ready to move.

Champion stood at attention, back ramrod straight and eyes forward. His hands were locked behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart. One corner of his mouth was ever-so-slightly raised. 

They had been standing in these positions for 3 minutes. 

“C’mon,” the boy muttered, his eyes narrowing. Champion did not move. “Fight me, do _something._ ” 

Champion remained at attention. 

The boy’s thumb rubbed against the cloth covering on his knife’s hilt. He swayed slightly, back and forth, always ready, always waiting. The motion had increased slightly in speed, the boy’s eyes narrowing. He was running out of patience. Champion’s hands unclenched, ready to move. 

The boy took a single step forwards, then one to the side. He circled Champion like a lion, light on his feet. Champion kept his eyes forward, staring into the middle distance. 

The boy’s foot came down onto the sand hard, and Champion was already twisting. The boy sprang at where he was, overbalanced, fell. Champion darted in, and the boy grabbed him by the foot, knife scoring across his ankle. First blood. 

Champion returned to attention. A smile played about his lips. 

****

“In this fight,” she said, “Your opponent is pampered. He does not know the forces he plays with. Kill him, my Champion. Let him die slowly.”

****

The arena. The opponent was tall, but thin. Champion watched him as he paced, circling around the ring. He was comfortable with the sword he held. It was a well-crafted weapon, and his grip was strong. His hair was long, tumbling down past his shoulders. He was young, as young as the boy in the red jacket. His eyes narrowed, and he struck. 

Champion turned, catching the blade in his metal palm and yanking. The kid rushed forward, ducked under Champion’s arm. He was forced to release the blade, and it swung to his side, catching there as he twisted away.

The kid was clever, and fast. He was smirking, stance ready. 

Champion rushed forward, arm reaching for the kids throat. The kid spun under it, and he grabbed a fistful of white hair, tugging harshly. The kid yelped, sword darting in, but Champion simply stepped aside, grabbing his forearm. He fell to the floor, and Champion followed him down, knee pressing into his sternum. 

Champion’s fingers closed around the kid’s throat, and he stilled. He was so young. His eyes were full of fire. 

“The fight is over,” Champion said. 

****

The electricity crackled, and he gritted his teeth, tried to hold on, to roll under the pain and break the surface, to keep the things he knew. 

****

Champion was always, always guarded. When he woke from the ice, she was waiting, and there were guards behind her. When she gave him his instructions, they were listening. When he walked to the arena, the guards led him. When he fought, they watched. When he killed his opponents, they did nothing. They kept him here, kept him trapped. Some of them were lazy. Some of them were slow.

They were armed, and he was not. They knew the words that would make him obey. That didn’t stop his mind from latching onto any flaw, any weakness, any chink in their armour. 

****

The guard led him into a small, plain room. There was a boy inside, with smart clothes and long, white hair. 

_clever, fast_

Champion stands at attention, eyes forward. 

“Leave us,” the boy said. The guard bows. 

“Are you sure, Prince Lotor? Champion can be-”

Lotor glances at the guard and raises a single eyebrow. The guard bows, and leaves. Lotor looks back to Champion, assessing.

“Hmm.” Lotor’s mouth is a flat line. His eyes are cold. “I wonder where you picked that up from. So... military.” He does not seem to expect an answer. Champion tracked his motions, the way he stood, his hands reaching out to examine Champion’s white streak of hair. “It’s irrelevant, I guess. I am simply curious.”

“My father founded this organisation,” Lotor said, walking slowly around Champion “In his youth, he planted it, nurtured it. You were there, weren’t you? Obedient. Deadly. We have people everywhere, and when we see something we don’t like, that’s when you come in handy. The carrot, and the stick.” Champion could feel his eyes, always watching. “You have been ever so useful. A ticket to a single match, and people become… malleable.”

“However.” Lotor came to a halt, facing away. “Every now and again, a demonstration is required. A show of obedience. Control. An attack dog is no use, after all, if it bites the hand that feeds it.” Champion’s stance subtly shifted, preparing to defend, to run, to- 

“быть спокойным,” Lotor said lazily, and the tension drained out of Champion’s shoulders. The boy reached into his jacket pocket, drawing out an elaborate letter opener. It’s blade glinted in the light. “And this time, the wrong hand has been bitten. I rarely forgive. I never forget. Of course it was not you that humiliated me,” he turned, and smiled at Champion like a parent would to a misguided child. “Haggar pulls your strings.” 

Lotor stepped closer, raising the blade, and Champion’s nerves were screaming. The point of it was inches away from his left eye. _Is this a dagger I see before me?_ “But I can’t be seen to retaliate at _her,_ not quite yet. And I can’t be seen not to retaliate at all.” 

Champion stared into the middle distance. His pulse was pounding. 

“What’s that phrase, an eye for an eye?” Lotor chuckled. “I do believe it’s fitting. Shame you won’t remember any of this.” The point of the knife slowly moved forward. 

“She meant to kill you,” Champion said.

The knife stopped.

“Interesting,” Lotor said. “Now how do you know _that?_ ”

He did not know. He remained silent. The knife turned, the blade resting against his skin.

“I’d accuse you of lying,” Lotor murmured, “but frankly I doubt you’re capable. Now, быть спокойным.”

The point of the knife turned, dug in slightly, and Champion felt a drop of liquid race across his cheek. The knife hit bone, and Champion remained at attention. It dragged across his face, through his nose, and he kept. still.

He could not stop the tremors racing down his spine, rattling his fingertips. Blood was pouring down his cheeks now, dripping onto the floor. Lotor hummed, pleased, and stepped back. 

“There,” and he walked behind Champion to the door, knocked twice. The door opened, and Champion turned. “Take him to Haggar. Tell her to let it scar.”

“Of course, Prince Lotor.” The guard’s eyes were wide. 

Champion followed the guard, blood running down his face, his neck, soaking into his tac gear.

****

She (Haggar, her name was Haggar) was displeased. She gestured, and he lay on the table, letting her lean over him, frown at the open wound that was his face. 

“How dare he,” she hissed, swabbing roughly at the wound. Champion did not flinch. “That upstart thinks he can play with what’s _mine,_ imprudent brat. Let it scar, like he can leave me with _this._ It’s uneven, that idiot let some common butcherhack at my masterpiece.” She deftly picked up a scalpel, digging into the wound. Champion pressed down on the instinct to scream, thrash, attack. She leaned back, eyes narrowed, then a wicked smile creeped across her face. “Better. It’ll look dangerous.”

****

He stepped into the small chamber, stitches tugging at his skin. The door sealed, and the temperature dropped, and his eyes closed. 

****

The world was full of snowflakes. They hung in the air, suspended without thread. Pristine. His head tilted. They looked soft. He reached up with his right hand, warm fingers closing around a flake. It felt cold. He opened his fingers, and the flake was red. 

He stumbled back, away, but hit another flake. He heard a rushing, a shriek that kept building and building. He stared at the two snowflakes, ruby-red, and his breath was coming faster, rushing out of him in bursts of steam. 

The red flakes were falling, drifting downward and touching the still white and _staining, spreading,_ and everything was crashing down, red flakes swirling and being tossed into the sky and the wind was howling in his ears and his arm was screaming and-

He fell to his knees and he woke.

****

The boy in the red jacket was waiting for his lesson. He stood at attention, and Champion mirrored him, 4 feet away. His eyebrows rose when he saw Champion’s face.

“Who did that?” he asks, surprise coloring his tone. 

Champion remained silent. The guards were listening. He took a single step forward, arm sweeping at the boy, too hard. The boy dodged backwards, then jumped in, arm snapping around his neck, just like he expected. 

“Talk like this,” Champion whispered, before dropping his full weight onto the boy’s arm. The hold loosened, and he fell away, face blank.

The boy dropped with him, knife flashing towards his chest, and he heard “No one- Galra- beat you.” His metal arm caught the knife, and Champion curled up, kicking the boy’s feet from under him. 

The boy fell on top of him, elbow angled to thud into his abdomen. He had the knife. “Not a fair fight.” Champion wheezed, slashing lightly across the back of the boy’s cheek.

****

The guards had names. They said them to each other, when they thought he couldn’t hear.

Champion stood over the cooling body of his opponent, blood soaking into the sand. They had names, his opponents. He was told them, sometimes. He knew them, sometimes.

( _Sam._ )

The audience had names, the scientists had names, everyone on Earth had a damn name. 

Did he have a name? Yes. His name was Champion. 

But that seemed _wrong._ There was something missing, he thought, as the crowd cheered his win. There was something on the tip of his tongue, like a half-remembered dream.

What was his name?

****

The electricity crackled, and he yelled, holding onto his mind and gripping _tight._

****

“Your name?” Champion murmured, forearm braced against the boy’s. He bucked, throwing the boy away, and jackknifed to his feet.

The boy lunged knife-first, and Champion deflected, used the boy’s momentum to throw him. “Keith, yours,” the boy had breathed. He was rolling, now, popping back to his feet. Champion swung his arm, grabbed for Keith’s throat.

“Don’t know,” he grunted as Keith ducked away from the hold. “They took it.”

****

The camera lens moved, focusing. It was inches away from his face when it flashed, and he blinked. She muttered, scrawling notes on healing rate. A machine beeped, slow and steady, monitoring his heart rate.

The technician behind the camera glanced down at the screen. He looked to her (to _Haggar_ ) and nodded, pleased by whatever he had seen. The mohawk on his head swayed, and Champion’s eyes followed the movement. 

They weren’t hurting him, so they had not said the words. He could activate his arm. He could close his fingers around Haggar’s throat and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze. 

The technician dragged over the machine. Champion could break it. But then he would hurt, and they would build another, and shock him again and again so he couldn’t remember anything. 

He was getting better at keeping his thoughts. He bowed his head, and nimble hands secured the machine in place.

****

Cold water ran over his hands. It soaked a cloth he was holding. There was a small wound on his right knuckle, a spot of red. The skin had parted slightly. It was uneven, with slightly ragged edges. He frowned at it. The water streamed from the tap, splattering onto the tin sink. 

He turned. There was a bathtub, speckled with rust. A high window, dust motes drifting through the air. The sink, water spluttering from the tap. Pipes running across the wall, gurgling slightly, metal worn. 

He leant in, resting his hands on the side of the tub. Black locks of hair fell into his face. He frowned at the patch of sunlight on the wall. Something was missing. Something was wrong. 

The tap spluttered, and he glanced over. The liquid flowing from it was bright red. 

He straightened. His metal fingers clacked against the edge of the tub. He reached out, twisting the tap off. The liquid continued flowing. An iron tang filled the air.

He was shaking, his heart thundering in his chest, because he knew, he _knew_ what happened next, he’d been dreaming it over and over. The blood stained everything it touched, it never stopped. He took a single step back, than another. His eyes fixed on the drain, the way the level was already rising. 

He reached behind him, turned the doorknob. It stuck, like it always did, and he turned, put his shoulder into it. The door popped open, and he slipped through. His hands were shaking. 

“Shiro?” a voice said. He looked up. 

There was a man standing by the window. His head was tilted, in question. He stepped forward, into the light. His eyes were golden. His hair shone like copper wire. 

“Are you alright?” the man asked, a concerned frown on his face. There was a handprint burned into his throat. The skin was blistered, peeling away, warped by vicious heat. 

Tremors were running down his spine, pooling in his fingertips. He opened his mouth to reply, and woke.

****

His waking was different, this time. She (he’d had her name, he had it a second or hour or years ago, what was it) was not there.

Keith was. The technician, the one with the mohawk, grabbed his arm and pulled him from the cold. 

“We have to be quick,” the technician was saying. “Antok cannot keep our exit open without detection for long.”

“I know, Ulaz,” Keith growled, reaching out to hold some of Champion’s weight. “Hey, you awake? What do you remember?”

Champion shuffled his feet until they were underneath him, and stood to attention. His head was spinning slightly.

“Fuck.”

“5 minutes,” Ulz hissed. “Then we shelve him and leave.”

“He’s coming with us.” Keith’s eyes were fixed on Champion, his brows furrowed in concern.

“Go on then!” Ulaz threw his hands into the air. “Convert the Galra’s greatest asset in 4 minutes. You took _months_ to come around.”

“Hey, Champion?” Keith said. Champion turned to face him. Should he fight? The lab was not a place to fight in. But the lab was dark, and empty save for the three of them. “Do you know my name?”

“Keith,” Champion stated. “Red jacket. Do not kill.”

“Yeah, that’s me. What’s your name?”

Champion remained silent.

“You don’t know, right? You’ve just been _wiped_ , then stuck in a fucking freezer for weeks. The Galra did that to you.”

Champion’s gaze shifted, over Keith’s shoulder to the technician by the door. 

Keith looked around, and grimaced. “Ulaz did that to you. Yeah. Ulaz, could you step out for a minute?”

“I’ll step out for three. Then I’m leaving.” Ulaz moved to the door. He caught it before it closed, shutting it with a soft click.

“We’re getting out. Going somewhere safe. You should come.”

_To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus._

Champion’s head was spinning. 

Keith was worrying the hilt of his knife. His thumb brushed over the insignia there. “ _Please._ ”

Champion’s lips parted, but no sound came through. 

Keith took a deep breath. “They treat you like you’re a _thing._ Like you can’t think. Come with us, get out of here, and I’ll make sure no-one ever does that again.”

Champion could go with them. He could say ‘Yes,’ and follow Keith away. He hated it here, he hated this, he hated her, he could _go-_

But what if he was caught? 

His vision blurred. He blinked, and liquid beaded on his lower eyelid. 

He didn’t know anything other than here, other than this, other than her. The only things he knew were how to kill, and how to hurt. 

Keith was a good fighter. He was young. He could learn. He should go. 

Something rolled down Champion’s cheek, and his head shook once. Tremors were running down his spine, pooling in his fingertips.

Keith’s hands were shaking, too. “Fine,” he said, and his voice was shaking. “Fine, stay here, see if I care.” 

“Sorry,” Champion said. 

And then Keith left.


	6. INTERLUDE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But it was not your fault but mine  
> And it was your heart on the line  
> I really fucked it up this time  
> Didn't I, my dear?  
> -Little Lion Man, Mumford and Sons.

"Curve ball, high and outside for ball one, so the Dodgers are tied, 4-4! And the crowd well knows that with one swing of his bat, this fellow's capable of making it a brand-new game again. Just an absolutely gorgeous day here at Ebbets Field.”  
  
"... huh? What's..."  
  
"The Phillies have managed to tie up at 4-4, but the Dodgers have three men on! Pearson _beaned_ Reiser in Philadelphia last month. Wouldn't the youngster like a hit here to return the favour? Pete leans in. Here's the pitch... Swung on! A line to the right. And it gets past-"  
  
"Hello, captain. You've been asleep."  
  
"...Have I?"  
  
"Yes. We're in a secure facility, one in New York City. Don't worry, it's safe here."  
  
"Is it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Yes. This facility is utterly-"  
  
"I'm not doubting the security."  
  
“... My name’s Allura. I’ll be taking care of you whilst you recover. Do you remember what happened?”

“I crashed a plane. I’m not feeling too good.”

“Well, some bedrest should do you good. Would you like to hear the rest of the game?”

“Alright.”   
  
"The Dodgers take the lead, 8-4. Oh, Dodgers! Everyone is on their feet. What a game we have here today, folks. What a game indeed."   
  
****   
  
"Captain Holt, I presume?"   
  
"I’m afraid so, sir! Tried to sneak out at around 0112, then bolted. Made into Times Square, very well done! Got around our guards by-”   
  
" _ Thank  _ you Coran. Report at a more sensible hour?”

“Sure! I’ll have a chat with ‘Llura, get all the details smuggled out for you. She’s fine, bee tee double-us, no harm done!”   
  
"I’ll look forward to hearing all about it. Captain, have a seat."   
  
"..."   
  
“I apologise sincerely for the deception. We were trying to give you peace of mind as you woke.”

“...”   
“We are not your enemies, Captain. What gave it away?"  
  
"...The radio. The sound, it was too clear."  
  
"I see. My name is Alfor Asteri, I run the ship here. This organisation is called ALTEA, we work for the US government. The current year is 2012. You've been frozen for decades, as far as we can tell."  
  
"..."   
  
"We won the war. Your twin brother was involved in that quite a lot, actually."  
  
"Sam. What happened to..."  
  
"A car crash. 1991."  
  
"Fuck."  
  
"He had a wife, and a daughter. Colleen Holt, his wife, was also in the car, but your niece, Katie, is alive, and... rather busy."  
  
"I don't- I can't..."   
  
"We'll set up some quarters for you, once you've been checked over by medical. You can catch up on your own time."  
  
"... Thanks."  
  
****  
“FUCK.”  
  
"...New punching bags are in the cupboard over by the door."  
  
"I _know_."  
  
"Fine, jeez."  
  
****  
  
"You wanna spar? Bags aren't good for much if you keep hitting them off the hook."  
  
"Who the fuck are you?"  
  
"Agent Keith Kogane."  
  
"Well, _Agent Keith Kogane_ , you have seen me punch a bag so hard it explodes. Several times. Do you really want to spar with me?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"...You're outta your mind."  
  
"It has been said."  
  
****  
  
"Still up for that spa-hrrk!"  
  
"One nil. First to three takedowns?"  
  
"How did you do that with your thighs?"  
  
"It's all in the hips. Stop pulling your punches, it ruins your form and you aren't gonna hit me."  
  
****  
  
"Look, Director Asteri. All my friends are dead. I don't have the first idea how things work in this century, but I got a lotta anger to get outta my system. Point me towards some bad guys."  
  
"Captain, you've served your rightful service. There is no duty, no obligation that ties you here."  
  
"Yeah, I know. But Keith tells me that-"  
  
"Agent Kogane is remarkably talented but-"  
  
"-the Galra are still out there."  
  
"-can occasionally lack discretion."  
  
"Director. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s kill Nazis."  
  
"...If you are sure that is what you want."  
  
"Eradicating the Galra from the face of the Earth? That’s what I want."  
  
****  
  
"That shield thing is weird."  
  
"Keith. We are in the middle of a Galra base. Now is not the time."  
  
"Just saying."  
  
****  
  
"Holt! You’re up."

“What? Allura, you know I don’t-”   
“Mission for you.”   
  
"Where is it this time?"   
  
"Siberia. This one's big."   
  
****   
  
"Alright team, I know most of you haven't worked together before. Agent Kogane will be leading the mission. We don't know much about this base. We don't know how many underground levels it has, or how many guards are assigned to it. What we  _ do  _ know is that this base holds Champion. Yeah, that Champion. This is our chance to take him out. Shoot to kill, and keep your heads. Not everyone’s gonna come out of this one."   
  
****   
  
"Keith."   
  
"Captain."   
  
"I need some intel on this Champion. Who is he?"   
  
"Dunno. He wears a mask, muzzle-type thing. The glowing metal arm is the recognisable bit."   
  
"Glowing?"   
  
"Yeah. Can slice through doors, body armour, whatever. He's lethal hand-to-hand. Credited with assassinations across the last few decades, as well as slaughtering prisoners of war in the Galra's private arena."   
  
"How do we know all this?"   
  
“Galra agent switched sides. Champion trained him."   
  
"Huh. Anything else?"   
  
"...Try to take him alive."   
  
"The briefing said-"   
  
"I know. Just... try."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! Just a lil note to let you guys know we are moving into the Endgame. Hence, the chapters will become shorter and there may even be emotions involved! Hope you enjoy!


	7. AUTUMNAL EQUINOX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each time I turn around  
> There's nothing there at all  
> So tell me why I feel like  
> I'm up against a wall  
> -False Alarm, KT Tunstall

Champion stood to attention, blinking away the cold. An alarm was blaring. The sound rang in his ears. She stood in front of him. 

“The base is under attack by hostile forces. Kill them.” 

****

Bulletproof vest. Grenades. Knifes. Goggles. Mask. Champion activated his arm, swept it through empty space. 

****

Soldiers. The insignia on their breast was a lion’s head. They were well trained. He slipped through and around and behind them, killing them before they even knew.

****

Long, straight hallway. Advantageous to his opponents, with their automatic weapons. That would make them relax. No places to hide.

Champion rolled his shoulders. He stood in plain sight, the centre of the corridor, and waited.

****

He could hear them approach. Boots ringing against the floor, shouted commands. His arm flicked into life, and he shifted into a low, ready stance. His metal arm covered his face, defensive and eye-catching. He unclipped a grenade from his belt, fingers brushing over the pin.

****

Bullets rang against his arm, and he glanced over it, noting their position. He flicked his flesh wrist, and the grenade rolled past them. The tight formation scattered like ants.

Champion caught a glimpse of motion larger than a bullet, and his arm stretched, caught the blur in midair (it felt familiar, the smoothness of the metal, the weight, the way the force rocked up through his shoulder-) He spun, pivoting into a throw. A bullet caught his tac vest, but he was up and running. 

The shield was caught by the team’s leader. Champion zigzagged down the hall, bouncing from wall to wall. His eyes stuck on the white star, the way the shield rose, defensive. They met another pair, fixed in determination. The man’s eyes were golden.

Champion switched path, sliding under the shield. His right hand cut through a gun barrel, his left closing around an agent’s wrist. The agent falls onto him, screaming, then jerks with the impact of his comrade’s bullets. Champion heaves the body into the middle of the group of agents, scrambles to his feet-

An edge rams into the back of his skull. The shield-  _ he forgot about the captain- _ His vision dances with black spots, then the shield arcs down again and he slumps to the ground.

****

Champion cannot feel his right arm. His eyes snap open. His arm is attached to him, but he cannot move it. It is bound above his head, cuffs hooked to the ceiling. The weight of the grenades at his hip has gone. His mask remains on, his tac gear strapped to him still. Quick exit, he surmises. No time to strip him completely, just remove the obvious weapons.

He scans the hold. It’s a narrow space. Eight agents are strapped into eight seats. Two covered bodies lie at their feet. He can hear an engine, some kind of aircraft? It looks like the wall against his back opens, and there is a large lever surrounded by warning signs by the head of the first agent.. Straight ahead, two pilots tap large screens, but the map they peer at is the wrong angle for him to make out much.

He flexes his wrist. The cuffs cut into his palm. They feel like metal. He looks down, and his ankles are bound, too. With rope. He keeps his face neutral. 

He looks to the agents. The seats are in two rows, against the walls. Nearest to him on the right  is the captain with the golden eyes. He’s exhausted, but watches Champion with an unwavering gaze. Something about him catches Champion’s eye, sends fear skittering down his spine. This man is dangerous, he feels it in his bones. He drags his eyes away, to the left. 

The agent there has the collar of his red jacket turned up, and he’s slumping in his seat. His eyes are almost closed, but his eyelashes flicker. He’s watching Champion as attentively as the captain. 

Those two will be the real problem. The other agents are tired from the mission. Three of them are injured, cuts and scratches. Two are asleep. Champion observes them for a few seconds. They’re just… asleep. 

How could trained agents be that stupid?

Champion flexes his wrist. His metal arm is still unresponsive, but he can make do. He leans back, shoulders brushing the metal, and waits.

****

The agent in the red jacket tugs at something in his mind. He does not look too closely at the figure, hunched in his chair. He should. He should be analysing, cataloging weaknesses, assessing the danger.

He does not look at all at the man with the golden eyes. 

He looks ahead and thinks of nothing.

****

The sound of the engines shifts into a different register. The plane is coming in to land. Champion’s weight shifts minutely. He must wait as long as he can, but not any longer. 

The floor of the plane tilts. Champion feels pressure building in his ears. He flexes his jaw, swallowing. His ears pop. The agent in the red jacket’s head tilts back, thunking against the wall.

One of the agents reaches for his harness, yawning, and Champion has to move. He swings, pushing off the wall. The red lever gives under his foot, and the wall behind him tremors. The agent in the red jacket is out of his seat in an instant, knife up.

Something about the way he stands twitches a thread in Champion’s mind, but he pushes it away. He’s still swinging, and he uses the momentum, kicking out and unhooking his cuffed hands. He lands on the balls of his feet, and lunges for the opening door into nothingness. The plane is levelling off now, but it had been coming to land, should have made it close enough-

A foot hooks around his, tripping him. He turns the fall into a roll, but the agent in the red jacket is quick, almost on top of him. He struggles, keeping that knife away from him. That thread twitches again, more urgent, but he growls, pushes it away. He needs to get away. He knees the agent in the stomach. The knife scores along his forehead and down, catches on his mask. He bucks, tossing and the agents grip loosens fractionally. Champion heaves, clawing the agent off him. The mask clatters to the ground, but he has bigger things to worry about. The captain has moved, is between him and the opening cargo door.

“What the  _ fuck- _ ” the captain says, eyes widening. An arm snaps around Champion’s throat, and he ducks, flipping Keith over his shoulder. Keith sails into the captain, a tangle of limbs, and Champion leaps over them both. He toes the edge for a second, scanning the ground. It’s forested, dark terrain. It’s snowing, fat flakes swirling in the plane’s wake.

He tips forward, and he can barely hear above the shout of the engines roar but he thinks someone said-

“Kashi!”

****

He was falling through snowflakes. It was funny, he thought, it looked like the snowflakes were still, hanging in midair. 

****

The snowflakes caught in his eyelashes. He blinked. Everything hurt. He moved anyway, curled into himself. One foot scraped against the snow, ankle twisted oddly, and he gasped. His arm was a mess, metal twisted where it’d crashed through branches, slowed his fall. He ached.

They’d be sending patrols. He needed to move.

He groaned. Then he pushed himself onto his good foot, and started limping.


	8. VERNAL EQUINOX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You taught me the courage of stars before you left.  
> How light carries on endlessly, even after death.  
> -Saturn, Sleeping At Last

There’s a crack, and a camplight flares in the captain’s hand. The blue-tinged light flattens out the shadows, catches in his eyes. They’re golden, Champion somehow knows, even if they look brown. The captain has golden eyes, and brown hair that gleams like copper in the sunlight.

Champion shakes his head again. There is no sunlight. He flicks his wrist, activating- something in his arm crunches, grinds, and a new wave of pain washes over him. He sways. 

The captain steps forward, reaching out. Champion manages a single step backwards. The captain stops. There’s a small furrow in his brow that screams worried. 

“Shiro?” he said, word slipping from his lips. The word twangs at Champion, makes him flinch. 

“Who the hell is  _ Shiro?”  _ Champion snarled. His heart was pounding in his chest, like a rabbits. 

“You are,” the captain said, incredulous. “Wait, Keith said- What do you remember?”

Champion remembered the shield on this mans back, edge slamming into his skull. He remembered the crackle of electricity. He remembered-

_ stars, and rusting metal, and a body pressed against his _

He said nothing. 

The captain ran a hand across his head, tugging back the cowl.  

“I’m your-” he hesitates, a fraction of a second lost, “friend. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Champion swiped at his forehead pointedly, flicked the blood onto the snow between them.

“Well, yeah, but...” the captain’s shoulders sagged. “Sorry.”

Champion’s eyes wanted to roll. His hand wanted to punch the captain in the shoulder, lightly. His lips wanted to sigh. Forgiving this man was instinct, ingrained almost as deep as killing. Champion held onto himself, pulled together. The captain breathed, deeply, and straightened.

“Your name is Takashi Shirogane.” His voice was firm. “Most people called you Shiro.”

“My name is Champion,” Champion recited, “I am a fighter in the arena. I am loyal to the Galra.” The words rolled off his tongue easily, without thought.

“Who told you that?” the captain asked, eyes narrowing. 

Champion’s jaw locked. A bout of dizziness washed over him, and he fought to keep his eyes open, fixed on the threat. 

“You're hurt,” the captain said, like it isn't obvious. “Come with me, we've gotta get to a doctor-”

_ white coats, clipboards, scalpels digging into his flesh _

Champion bolted. He made it three steps, then an arm locked around his shoulders, taking his weight. He twisted away, but the arm followed, warm and familiar.

“Dammit, Kashi, let me help.” 

Kashi. The word hit him like a bullet, and his head  _ exploded. _ The same word, the same voice, it rang across his skull a thousand different ways. He sagged, limp.

Wait, he would crush Matt, he couldn’t- 

The captain took his weight easily. His head was reeling. His neck lolled, resting against the captain’s shoulder. It was warm.

_ safe _

The patrols, they were coming for him-

_ safe _

They would-

_ safe _

His eyelids had weights on them, he thought, dragging them down. He shuddered out a breath, and turned his head into Matt’s shoulder. The captain’s shoulder. Whatever.

He didn’t know who this Matt was, who the captain was. Hell, he didn’t know who  _ he  _ was. But.

_ safe  _

The stars were out. He’d used them. The Plough, the North Star. He couldn’t see them, not with his head tucked away, ( _ safe _ ), but he knew they were there. They were always there, always shining. 

Champion’s breath caught. He rested his weight into the captain’s arms, and knew the shape of the spine under his fingertips, the smell of sweat, the shape of the lips pressing into his hair. 

His eyes flickered closed.

 ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> art for this chapter is by the lovely Freddy ( https://freddy-draws-and-scribbles.tumblr.com/post/167384029901/my-pieces-for-the-shiro-big-bang )! go give it a rb, everyone worked really hard on this.


	9. SUMMER SOLSTICE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there’ll come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.  
> And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.  
> Get over your hill and see what you find there,  
> With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.  
> -After the Storm, Mumford and Sons.

Champion’s eyes flickered open. A steady, familiar beeping filled his ears. His limbs went slack, automatically. He braced for pain. The captain had captured him.

 

But the surface under him was soft. Like a cloud. The light was blue-tinged, soft, instead of deep purple. The room smelled of lavender, with only a hint of the sharp, chemical smells he was used to.

 

There was a soft pressure on his flesh wrist. He turned his head slightly. A chair had been drawn up next to him. The captain was slumped across it, snoring slightly, hand linked around Champion’s. An IV tube rested in his forearm. His fingers curled, gently, brushing against the captain’s. This should not be an effective restraint, but Champion found himself oddly reluctant to move. 

 

_ safe _

 

The door to the room creaked open. Champion forced his eyelids to fall, his face to relax. One person entered, male by their footsteps. Well-trained, by the fact he could barely hear them move. 

 

“Matt,” a voice hissed. The agent the one with the red jack-

 

_ knife, do not kill, “You should come.” _

 

Oh! What was-  _ Keith,  _ Keith, that was it! He could remember, they fought, but just to first blood, and Keith'd been so little, and-

 

“Huh?” a voice murmured back. “What are you doing here?” The pressure on Champion’s wrist disappeared.

 

“He’s awake, you should have backup!” Keith whispered. 

 

“He’s still-” The captain looked over, and met Champion’s opening eyes. “Shiro!” He lit up, smile wide and open. “You’re awake.”

 

Champion stared back. His eyes were golden, catching the light of the room. A small scar cut across one of his cheeks. The beeping sound on the edge of his hearing sped up slightly. 

 

_ safe  _

 

Champion almost certainly was not safe. A drug was dulling the edges of his senses. He was a prisoner of an unknown organisation. His main weapon was nonfunctional.

 

But Matt was here. And he was smiling.

 

Champion was tired. He closed his eyes, and slept.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap! id like to thank everyone whos been following along with the story, and especially everyone who's left comments! comments brighten my day. 
> 
> the banner for this chapter was made by the marvellous Cupcake ( http://cupcakeismynamebitchez.tumblr.com/post/167400769906/i-really-wish-i-had-done-a-better-job-but-here-is ) !
> 
> im definitely not done with this world, so watch this space. irons are in the fire, though they may take some time to... melt? heat up? do things with the fire? what is this metaphor.


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